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The silk star-braided coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever, and amid
Her full black ringlets downward rolled. Glows forth each softly shadowed arm,
With bracelets of the diamond bright; Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love and day with light.
She sleeps! her breathings are not heard,
In palace chambers far apart; The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,
That lie upon her charméd heart. She sleeps! on either side upswells,
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest; She sleeps-nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.
Loveliness is ne'er so
The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings; He takes his window for the east;
And to implore your light, he sings, Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season
takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress
wakes. Awake, awake, break through your vails of
lawn! Then draw your curtains, and begin the
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth; Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark her forehead, smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arch'd brow such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements'
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touch'd it ? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow,
Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? Have you
felt the wool of the beaver ? Or the swan's down, ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar ? Or the nard i' the fire ? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee, Oh! so white! oh! so soft! oh! so sweet
Love is like the glass That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful. The morning looks Its very loveliest when the fresh air Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad
And the hot noon flits by most rapidly When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page Bearing the poet's words of love ;--and then The twilight walk when the link'd arms can
feel The beating of the heart; upon the air There is a music never heard but once,A light the eyes can never see again; Each star has its own prophecy of hope, And every song and tale that breathe of love Seem echoes of the heart.
THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A
PROSPECT OF FLOWERS.
See with what simplicity
This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lye, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flow'rs, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays,
And them does tell What colours best become them, and what
Who can foretell for what high cause,
This darling of the Gods was born!
Happy who can
O then let me in time compound,
And parly with those conquering eyes ; Ere they have try'd their force to wound,