Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls*
Gemm'd with bright islands, where the hallow'd souls,
Whom life hath wearied in its race of hours
Repose for ever in unfading bowers!
That very orb, whose solitary light
So often guides thee to thy home at night,
Is no chill planet, but an isle of love,
Floating in splendour through those seas above!
Thither, I thought, we wing'd our airy way,
Mild o'er its valleys stream'd a silvery day,
While, all around, on lily beds of rest,
Reclin'd the spirits of the immortal Blest!t
Oh! there I met those few congenial maids,
Whom love hath warm'd, in philosophic shades;
There still Leontium,‡ on her sage's breast,
Found lore and love, was tutor'd and carest;
And there the twine of Pythia's$ gentle arms
Repaid the zeal which deified her charms!
The Attic Master, in Aspasia's eyes
Forgot the toil of less endearing ties;
While fair Theano, innocently fair,
Play'd with the ringlets of her Samian's hair,
Who, fix'd by love, at length was all her own,
And pass'd his spirit through her lips alone!
Oh Samian sage! whate'er thy glowing thought
Of mystic Numbers divinely wrought;
The One that's form'd of Two who dearly love,
Is the best number heaven can boast above!
But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrill'd,
When near a fount, which o'er the vale distill'd,
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine,
That, oh!-'twas but fidelity in me,
To fly, to clasp, and welcome it for thee!
Oh my beloved! how divinely sweet
* This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the firmament," was one of the many physical errors in which the early fathers bewildered themselves.
†There were various opinions among the ancients with respect to their lunar establishment; some made it an elysium, and others a purgatory; while some supposed it to be a kind of entre-pôt between heaven and earth, where souls which had left their bodies, and those that were on their way to join them, were deposited in the valleys of Hecate, and remained till,
The pupil of Epicurus, who called her his "dear little Leontium." Pythias was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom, after her death, he paid divine honours, solemnizing her memory by the same sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the goddess Ceres.
Pythagoras was remarkable for fine hair.
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
Have deck'd their billow, as an offering meet
To pour at Arethusa's crystal feet!
But no; no more-soon as to-morrow s ray
O'er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away,
I'll fly, my Theon, to thy loving breast,
And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest.
IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.
I COULD resign that eye of blue,
Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me;
And though your lip be rich with dew,
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.
That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However oft I've raved about it;
And though your heart can beat with bliss,
I think my soul could live without it.
In short, I've learn'd so well to fast,
That, sooth my love, I know not whither
I might not bring myself at last,
To do without you altogether!
THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.
I BRING thee, love, a golden Chain,
I bring thee, too, a flowery Wreath;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
The flow'rets long shall sweetly breathe!
Come, tell me which the tie shall be
To bind thy gentle heart to me.
The Chain is of a splendid thread,
Stol'n from Minerva's yellow hair,
Just when the setting sun had shed
* 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.
The sober beam of evening there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
With brilliant tears of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, cull'd by Love,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it!
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.
Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,
Which answers when the tongue is loth, Thou lik'st the form of either tie,
And hold'st thy playful hands for both. Ah!-if there were not something wrong,
The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! The Wreath would make the Chain so soft! Then might the gold, the flow'rets be Sweet fetters for my love and me!
But, Fanny, so unblest they twine,
That (Heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, Or shine but for a transient season! Whether the Chain may press too much, Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flow'rets touch,
And all their glow, their tints are faded!
AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
Amidst the happiness, dear maid,
Which thou canst give, and only thou?
Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
The endearing charms that round me twine
There never throbb'd a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery like mine!
When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid,
Again to close it on my breast!
Oh! these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel,
Yet ev'n in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possess'd,
Like me awak'd its witching powers,
Like me was lov'd, like me was blest!
Upon his name thy murmuring tongue
Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt;
For him that snowy lid hath hung
In ecstasy, as purely felt!
For him-yet why the past recall
To wither blooms of present bliss? Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all,
And Heaven can grant no more than this! Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;
I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou should'st have but begun to live, The hour that gave thy heart to me.
Thy book of life till then effac'd,
Love should have kept that leaf alone,
On which he first so dearly trac'd
That thou wert, soul and all, my own!
THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove, Is fair but oh! how fair,
If pity's hand had stol'n from Love
One leaf to mingle there!
If every rose with gold were tied.
Did gems for dew-drops fall,
Oné faded leaf, where Love had sigh'd,
Were sweetly worth them all!
The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
Our emblem well may be;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love
Must keep its tears for me!
I Do confess, in many a sigh
My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them, for a lie or two?
Nay-look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lover's swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes!
Oh no!-believe me, lovely girl,
When Nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me.
And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!
I FILL'D to thee, to thee I drank,
I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and bland,
'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still!
At length I bid an artist paint
Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint,
To whom I quaff'd my nectar up.
Behold how bright that purple lip
Is blushing through the wave at me! Every roseate drop I sip
Is just like kissing wine from thee!
But, oh! I drink the more for this;
For, ever when the draught I drain,
Thy lip invites another kiss,
And in the nectar flows again!
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