Page images
PDF
EPUB

III.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR.

THE Comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straightening curls of gold so beamy bright,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth more pure, more milky white.

The rose-pomatum that the friseur spreads
Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,

But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

Happy the friseur who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontroll'd may rove,
And happy in his death the dancing bear
Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays

Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,

The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin angled for my heart.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed,
Fine as the gleamy gossamer, that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate
My captive heart has handcuffed in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,
That bears Britannia's thunders o'er the main.

The sylphs that round her radiant locks repair,
In flowing lustre bathe their brightening wings
And elfin minstrels with assiduous care

The ringlets rob for faery fiddle-strings.

IV.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA'S

HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

OH! be the day accurst that gave me birth!

Ye seas, to swallow me in kindness rise!
Fall on me, mountains! and thou, merciful earth,
Open and hide me from my Delia's eyes!

Let universal chaos now return,

Now let the central fires their prison burst,
And earth and heaven, and air and ocean, burn-
For Delia frowns--she frowns, and I am curst!

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,

Where hostile millions sought my single life;
Would storm volcano batteries with delight,
And grapple with grim death in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,
When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies
What is his wrath to that of her I love?

What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;
Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils go-
Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,
Accursed lock-thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the curst curls, ye furies, as they fly!
Dæmons of darkness, guard the infernal roll,
That thence your cruel vengeance when I die,
May knit the knots of torture for my soul.

Last night-Oh hear me Heaven, and grant my prayer!
The book of fate before thy suppliant lay,
And let me from its ample records tear
Only the single page of yesterday!

Or let me meet old Time upon his flight,
And I will stop him on his restless way;
Omnipotent in love's resistless might,

I'll force him back the road of yesterday.

Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair,
My Delia bent deliciously to grieve;
I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair,
And drew the fatal scissars from my sleeve.

And would that at that instant o'er my thread
The shears of Atropos had open'd then;
And when I reft the lock from Delia's head,
Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissars that fair lock divide,
And whilst my heart with transport panted big,
She cast a fury frown on me, and cried,

"You stupid puppy-you have spoil'd my wig!"

Funeral Song.

FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.

In its summer pride arrayed

Low our Tree of Hope is laid,
Low it lies; in evil hour,

Visiting the bridal bower,

Death hath levell'd root and flower

Windsor, in thy sacred shade,
(Thus the end of pomp and power!)
Have the rites of death been paid:
Windsor, in thy sacred shade
Is the Flower of Brunswick laid!

Ye whose relics rest around,
Tenants of the funeral ground!
Know ye, Spirits, who is come,
By immitigable doom

Summoned to the untimely tomb?
Late with youth and splendour crown'd,
Late in beauty's vernal bloom,

Late with love and joyaunce blest;
Never more lamented guest
Was in Windsor laid to rest.

Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Thou. to whom thy Windsor gave

Nativity, and name, and grave;
Thou art in this hallowed earth
Cradled for the immortal birth.
Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited.
He, in spirit like a child,
Meek of heart and undefiled,
Patiently his crown resign'd,
And fix'd on heaven his heavenly mind,
Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod,
His Redeemer and his God.
Now may he in realms of bliss
Greet a soul as pure as his.

Passive as that humble spirit,
Lies his bold dethroner too;
A dreadful debt did he inherit
To his injured lineage due:

Ill starred Prince, whose martial merit
His own England long might rue!
Mournful was that Edward's fame,
Won in fields contested well,

While he sought his rightful claim:
Witness Aire's unhappy water,

Where the ruthless Clifford fell;

And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter,

On the day of Towcester's field;

Gathering, in its guilty flood,

The carnage and the ill-spilt blood,

That forty thousand lives could yield.
Cressy was to this but sport,

Poictiers but a pageant vain,

And the victory of Spain

Seem'd a strife for pastime meant,

And the work of Agincourt

Only like a tournament:

Half the blood which there was spent.

Had sufficed again to gain
Anjou and ill-yielded Maine:
Normandy and Aquitaine,
And our Lady's ancient towers,
Maugre all the Valois' powers,
Had a second time been ours.
The gentle daughter of thy line,
Edward, lays her dust with thine.

Thou, Elizabeth, art here:

Thou to whom all griefs were known:
Who wert placed upon the bier
In happier hour than on the throne.
Fatal Daughter, fatal Mother,
Raised to that ill-omen'd station,
Father, uncle, sons, and brother,
Mourn'd in blood her elevation;
Woodville, in the realms of bliss,
To thine offspring thou mayst say,
Early death is happiness;

And favour'd in their lot are they
Who are not left to learn below,
That length of life is length of woe.
Lightly let this ground be prest;
A broken heart is here at rest.

But thou, Seymour, with a greeting,
Such as sisters use at meeting;
Joy, and Sympathy, and Love,
Wilt hail her in the seats above.
Like in loveliness were ye,
By a like lamented doom,
Hurried to an early tomb;
While together spirits blest,
Here your earthly relics rest.
Fellow angels shall ye be
In the angelic company.

Henry, too, hath here his part;
At the gentle Seymour's side,
With his best beloved bride,

Cold and quiet, here are laid

The ashes of that fiery heart.
Not with his tyrannic spirit,
Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit;

No, by Fisher's hoary head,

By More, the learned and the good,

By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood,

By the life so basely shed

Of the pride of Norfolk's line,

By the axe so often red,
By the fire with martyrs fed,
Hateful Henry, not with thee,
May her happy spirit be!

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »