LITMIR.BIZ

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      Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;

      Nor was it long ere he had told the tale

      Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

      Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew

      That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,

      That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

      Coming ever to bless

      The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

      Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing

      From out the middle air, from flowery nests,

      And from the pillowy silkiness that rests

      Full in the speculation of the stars.

      Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;

      Into some wond’rous region he had gone,

      To search for thee, divine Endymion!

      He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

      Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew

      Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;

      And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow

      A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,

      The incense went to her own starry dwelling.

      But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,

      Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,

      The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,

      Wept that such beauty should be desolate:

      So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,

      And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

      Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen

      Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!

      As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

      So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.

      O for three words of honey, that I might

      Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

      Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,

      Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,

      And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,

      Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.

      The evening weather was so bright, and clear,

      That men of health were of unusual cheer;

      Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,

      Or young Apollo on the pedestal:

      And lovely women were as fair and warm,

      As Venus looking sideways in alarm.

      The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

      And crept through half closed lattices to cure

      The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,

      And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.

      Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,

      Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:

      And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight

      Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;

      Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,

      And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

      Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d

      With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d

      To see the brightness in each others’ eyes;

      And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,

      Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.

      Therefore no lover did of anguish die:

      But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,

      Made silken ties, that never may be broken.

      Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,

      That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:

      Was there a Poet born? – but now no more,

      My wand’ring spirit must no further soar. –

       Imitation of Spenser

      Now Morning from her orient chamber came,

      And her first footsteps touch’d a verdant hill;

      Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,

      Silv’ring the untainted gushes of its rill;

      Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,

      And after parting beds of simple flowers,

      By many streams a little lake did fill,

      Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,

      And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

      There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright

      Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;

      Whose silken fins, and golden scales’ light

      Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:

      There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,

      And oar’d himself along with majesty;

      Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show

      Beneath the waves like Afric’s ebony,

      And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

      Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle

      That in that fairest lake had placed been,

      I could e’en Dido of her grief beguile;

      Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:

      For sure so fair a place was never seen,

      Of all that ever charm’d romantic eye:

      It seem’d an emerald in the silver sheen

      Of the bright waters; or as when on high,

      Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.

      And all around it dipp’d luxuriously

      Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,

      Which, as it were in gentle amity,

      Rippled delighted up the flowery side;

      As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,

      Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!

      Haply it was the workings of its pride,

      In strife to throw upon the shore a gem

      Outvieing all the buds in Flora’s diadem.

       Three Sonnets to Woman

      I.

      Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

      Inconstant,

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