CANZONET I. WHEN the grey witch of former days Presum❜d to exercise her spell, She made her exit in a blaze, And he that was bewitch'd was well. But now since more angelic shapes At incantation take their turn, The beauteous sorceress escapes, And he that is bewitch'd must burn. So am I doom'd in spite of aid To languish in the midst of flame, Fast-stak'd by yon enchanting maid, Who charms me with her very name. Bewitching beauty, ah, restrain The pow'rful magic of thine eye, Bestow a smile upon my pain, And set me free, or let me die. Rouse thy displeasure. Let despair THE MIDNIGHT INVOCATION. YE fairies who float on the breeze, And in blossoms delight to repose, Or regale with convenience and ease Ye elves who in acorn-cups dwell, Sleeping fast through the fervours of noon, And rejoice round the hyacinth's bell To dance down the pale day of the moon; Lay aside ev'ry sport ye pursue On the mountain or dew-besprent green, And your gay summer habits renew, To come hither and wait on your Queen. Make ye haste at the dead of the night From her chamber to steal her away, Oh make haste, and again to my sight My divine little charmer convey. Your most easy of chariots prepare, One whose wheels are on thistledown borne, And conduct her asleep thro' the air Softly smiling as rosy-cheek'd morn. Deck her couch with the blossoms of spring, In the lap of sweet slumber and ease And her cheek curtain close from the breeze With the web of the foe to the fly. And, since slumber and music agree, Gentle harmonies round her be heard, The soft flutes of the gnat and the bee, And the hum of the dew-sipping bird. At my door when your myriads alight, Let no footstep disquiet her peace; Come ye down like the snow in the night, Soft and still as the dew on the fleece. And if, wak'd, from yon intricate thorn Bid him hush, for it is not the morn, Airy charmer, who thus to my sight, While I gaze and too fondly admire; Lift thine eye, and my passion approve, For I own, and conceal it no more, Thou alone art the fairy I love, Thou alone art the sylph I adore. Yet, alas! since to these longing arms Thy attractions thou wilt not resign, Slumber on while I dote on thy charms, And applaud what must never be mine. Ah! the Fates, gentle Waller, design'd That our lots should in one thing agree; Thou wast won by a maiden unkind, And a maiden unkind has won me. Thou didst love, and still she could refuse, Sweet encouragement never was thine, Saccharissa could laugh at thy muse, Annabella is heedless of mine. |