 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
177
TO IANTHE.
Ianthe, could I touch the lyre,
With magic art like thine,
I 'd wake the spirit-breathing wire
To thoughts of light and tones of fire,
Like those which, breathed by thee, inspire
This raptured heart of mine.
And I would still the lay prolong,
And oft the strain repeat,
To tell how much I love thy song,
Its numbers are so sweet.
With magic art like thine,
I 'd wake the spirit-breathing wire
To thoughts of light and tones of fire,
Like those which, breathed by thee, inspire
This raptured heart of mine.
And I would still the lay prolong,
And oft the strain repeat,
To tell how much I love thy song,
Its numbers are so sweet.
I 've marked thee—ere a dozen springs
Had bloomed upon thy cheek,
When, buoyant on her glittering wings,
Thy infant fancy warbled things
Such delicate imaginings,
As poesy can speak.
'T was genius, uncontrolled by art,
And reckless of defeat,
I heard the lay, it touched my heart,
'T was wild and simply sweet.
Had bloomed upon thy cheek,
When, buoyant on her glittering wings,
Thy infant fancy warbled things
Such delicate imaginings,
As poesy can speak.
'T was genius, uncontrolled by art,
And reckless of defeat,
I heard the lay, it touched my heart,
'T was wild and simply sweet.
178
I marked the next, with cultured mind,
In all the charms of youth,
And knew thy lovely form enshrined
A heart which every grace combined,
By native taste and art refined,
The pure abode of truth.
Then, when I listened to thy lay,
Each pulse with rapture beat,
It seemed to bear the soul away,
'T was exquisitely sweet.
In all the charms of youth,
And knew thy lovely form enshrined
A heart which every grace combined,
By native taste and art refined,
The pure abode of truth.
Then, when I listened to thy lay,
Each pulse with rapture beat,
It seemed to bear the soul away,
'T was exquisitely sweet.
Another heard—the one alone
Whose worth inspired the strain;
Whose manly heart is honor's throne,
Who breathed a sigh for every tone,
And made his modest wishes known,
Nor did he plead in vain.
And when a wife—I heard thee still
The matchless strain repeat;
How must his heart with transport thrill!—
'T was ravishingly sweet.
Whose worth inspired the strain;
Whose manly heart is honor's throne,
Who breathed a sigh for every tone,
And made his modest wishes known,
Nor did he plead in vain.
And when a wife—I heard thee still
The matchless strain repeat;
How must his heart with transport thrill!—
'T was ravishingly sweet.
And is there yet a tenderer tie
To twine Ianthe's heart?
Can warmer feelings light her eye,
And bid her pulses quicker fly?
Can any other's smile or sigh
Such ecstasies impart?
There can—an infant's smile inspire
A strain with joy replete;
A mother's love attunes the lyre—
'T is now divinely sweet!
To twine Ianthe's heart?
Can warmer feelings light her eye,
And bid her pulses quicker fly?
Can any other's smile or sigh
Such ecstasies impart?
179
A strain with joy replete;
A mother's love attunes the lyre—
'T is now divinely sweet!
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |