 | Young Arthur |  |
THE VIRGIN.
The virgin dresses her all in white,
By Purity bleach'd in the morning light,
In the morning light when the day's too young
For Folly to wake, with her wanton tongue.
And Meekness robes her with artless grace;
Simplicity's hands her adornings place;
And Modesty blooms her cheek with dew
From the loveliest rose; that drop the hue,
The bashful hue of the morning sky
Reflected, imbib'd, will that dew drop dye.
And Piety prompts her morning prayer,
And Truth holds the glass to adjust her air;
And her heavenly kiss to those lips imparts
Whose melody fascinates human hearts.
And Benevolence plants in her bosom a rose,
In the garden of Eden alone which blows;
And, O, a charm'd fragrance it breathes around,
And wherever it is there smiles are found.
Then forth she comes, like a heavenly day,
Surpassing the bride of an Eastern lay;
Of an Eastern lay; where luxuriant bowers,
And spicy gales, woo the wanton hours:
And fancy-dress'd graces wild love invite
To the rosy bed of uncheck'd delight;
Where flowers that seem with a soul to live,
Such perfume to languishing zephyrs give
That the senses faint from their fragrant breath,
And die with a sweet, but unholy, death.
By Purity bleach'd in the morning light,
In the morning light when the day's too young
For Folly to wake, with her wanton tongue.
And Meekness robes her with artless grace;
Simplicity's hands her adornings place;
And Modesty blooms her cheek with dew
From the loveliest rose; that drop the hue,
179
Reflected, imbib'd, will that dew drop dye.
And Piety prompts her morning prayer,
And Truth holds the glass to adjust her air;
And her heavenly kiss to those lips imparts
Whose melody fascinates human hearts.
And Benevolence plants in her bosom a rose,
In the garden of Eden alone which blows;
And, O, a charm'd fragrance it breathes around,
And wherever it is there smiles are found.
Then forth she comes, like a heavenly day,
Surpassing the bride of an Eastern lay;
Of an Eastern lay; where luxuriant bowers,
And spicy gales, woo the wanton hours:
And fancy-dress'd graces wild love invite
To the rosy bed of uncheck'd delight;
Where flowers that seem with a soul to live,
Such perfume to languishing zephyrs give
That the senses faint from their fragrant breath,
And die with a sweet, but unholy, death.
Ah! these are the scenes the maid should shun,
By genius and fancy too sweetly sung;
For there beams a charming, not cheering, sun,
And delirium wanders those bowers among.
By genius and fancy too sweetly sung;
180
And delirium wanders those bowers among.
O, fancy, when chasten'd, thy elegant play
Is the genius of grace, and the graceful of gay;
But, O, unrestrain'd, 'tis the wanton dance
Of the hirelings of luxury's 'wilder'd trance;
When the mind, enslav'd by the mazy wile,
Barters grace for the kisses of guile.
Fancy, a fickle and fervid power,
Building for ever a fairy bower;
Where richer far, and more redolent, grows
Than nature imagin'd the poet's rose:
And the dew-drops that from its charm'd leaves depend,
Like witch-drops that from the moon descend,
By the hand of the wild wizard-wit are caught,
And into bewildering spells are wrought.
Fancy, who pierces the inmost cell
Where gnomes are pictur'd to lurk and lie;
Revels where sylphs and genii dwell,
And wreathes her in wanton witchery.
Is the genius of grace, and the graceful of gay;
But, O, unrestrain'd, 'tis the wanton dance
Of the hirelings of luxury's 'wilder'd trance;
When the mind, enslav'd by the mazy wile,
Barters grace for the kisses of guile.
Fancy, a fickle and fervid power,
Building for ever a fairy bower;
Where richer far, and more redolent, grows
Than nature imagin'd the poet's rose:
And the dew-drops that from its charm'd leaves depend,
Like witch-drops that from the moon descend,
By the hand of the wild wizard-wit are caught,
And into bewildering spells are wrought.
Fancy, who pierces the inmost cell
Where gnomes are pictur'd to lurk and lie;
Revels where sylphs and genii dwell,
And wreathes her in wanton witchery.
As the virgin comes so the lovely maid
In the garden where Allan was toiling stray'd:
And once in a bower she sat, and she sung
A pensive air in a Christian tongue;
And Allan, who veil'd by a rose-tree stood,
Oppress'd by fancies a lurid brood,
The melody heard—'twas like the sound
Of hope's sweet steps on enchanted ground;
For at hope's approach dark fancies flee,
And her steps are attended by harmony.
He started, he listen'd and scarce believ'd;
'Twas fancy distracted, his mind deceiv'd—
Ah! no, for he peep'd through the flow'ry screen,
And a lovely vision the youth has seen:
For the maiden the veil from her face had flung,
And he sigh'd, while he listen'd, as thus she sung.
In the garden where Allan was toiling stray'd:
181
A pensive air in a Christian tongue;
And Allan, who veil'd by a rose-tree stood,
Oppress'd by fancies a lurid brood,
The melody heard—'twas like the sound
Of hope's sweet steps on enchanted ground;
For at hope's approach dark fancies flee,
And her steps are attended by harmony.
He started, he listen'd and scarce believ'd;
'Twas fancy distracted, his mind deceiv'd—
Ah! no, for he peep'd through the flow'ry screen,
And a lovely vision the youth has seen:
For the maiden the veil from her face had flung,
And he sigh'd, while he listen'd, as thus she sung.
| Young Arthur | |