 | The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq |  |
STANZAS TO A YOUNG LADY ON A BAMBOO FAN, ACCIDENTALLY TORN.
Erst, wanton Toy, 'twas thine to move,
By beauty's lovely queen caressed;
While, waving, like the wing of love,
Thou fanned'st a flame in every breast!
'Twas thine, in her imperial hand,
The cold to warm, the proud subdue;
The female Franklin's magic wand,
Olivia's sceptre, sweet Bamboo!
By beauty's lovely queen caressed;
While, waving, like the wing of love,
Thou fanned'st a flame in every breast!
'Twas thine, in her imperial hand,
The cold to warm, the proud subdue;
The female Franklin's magic wand,
Olivia's sceptre, sweet Bamboo!
Whene'er the Nymph displayed thy charms
Thy airy flutters graceful move;
Each bosom, throbbing soft alarms,
Appeared an aspen leaf of love.
And while, too fondly, thought the maid
To smile unseen, when veiled by you;
Her treacherous eyes the plot betrayed,
And dazzled through the thin Bamboo.
Thy airy flutters graceful move;
Each bosom, throbbing soft alarms,
Appeared an aspen leaf of love.
And while, too fondly, thought the maid
To smile unseen, when veiled by you;
Her treacherous eyes the plot betrayed,
And dazzled through the thin Bamboo.
But oh! ye Loves, whence heaves that sigh,
And whence those tears, ye Graces, flow?
Why swells the sorrow-glistening eye?
Why ventilates the breast of woe?
“'Tis rent! Olivia's fan is rent!
“Farewell, our triumphs! Fame, adieu!”
Alas!—But why, this wound lament?
'Tis glory to your loved Bamboo!
And whence those tears, ye Graces, flow?
Why swells the sorrow-glistening eye?
Why ventilates the breast of woe?
147
“Farewell, our triumphs! Fame, adieu!”
Alas!—But why, this wound lament?
'Tis glory to your loved Bamboo!
Two rival Zephyrs, knights of air,
Contended for Olivia's lip;
To dwell, like Epicureans there,
And riot on the nect'rous sip;
To that pure fount, of chaste delight,
These Chesterfields of æther flew;
Rushed on the Fan, which checked their sight,
And rudely tore the soft Bamboo.
Contended for Olivia's lip;
To dwell, like Epicureans there,
And riot on the nect'rous sip;
To that pure fount, of chaste delight,
These Chesterfields of æther flew;
Rushed on the Fan, which checked their sight,
And rudely tore the soft Bamboo.
Ah! could I gain the ear of Jove,
To list propitious to my prayer,
This sole request my wish should prove,
That I thy envied form might bear.
Then, from the nymph I'd steal a kiss,
And sigh, in plaintive zephyrs too;
While tender tales of love and bliss,
I'd whisper from the fond Bamboo!
To list propitious to my prayer,
This sole request my wish should prove,
That I thy envied form might bear.
Then, from the nymph I'd steal a kiss,
And sigh, in plaintive zephyrs too;
While tender tales of love and bliss,
I'd whisper from the fond Bamboo!
| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | |