LVIII. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: 12 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak! LIX. Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! 13 whom I now survey, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. LXI. Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confin'd their lot, Shall I unmov'd behold the hallow'd scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious Wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter.-Ev'n amidst my strain I turned aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme--but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. LXV. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.. LXVI. When Paphos fell by Time-accursed Time! To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; LXVII. From morn till night, from night till startled Morn And Love and Prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. |