 | Poems |  |
17
Love's Picture.
Come idle urchin, treach'rous boy,Thou dang'rous play-thing, transient joy:
Thy restless pinion hither bend,
Or on thy mother's dove descend;
Or on a fragrant gale repose,
Fresh from the bosom of a rose;
Or on a sun-beam hither hie,
Or bear thee on a balmy sigh!
Oh! come, while yet th'impulse is warm,
To realize thy Proteus form,
Come, arm'd with all thy magic arts,
Thy quiver, arrows, bow and darts;
Come with thy legion of delusions,
Call up thy phalanx of illusions;
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Review thy cohort of deceptions;
Nay muster all thy conqu'ring throng,
And come in charms ten thousand strong!
Then check thy ever flutt'ring wing,
Nor from idea let me sing,
But softly rest thee on my lyre,
And o'er its strains infuse thy fire;
Or perch thee on my fancy's pinion,
Where,—viewing thee, celestial minion,
Deluder sweet, fair imposition,
I'll analyze thy composition;
Expose thy hidden pangs and pains,
And loose thy victims from thy chains;
Shake not at me thy radiant locks,
Thy power my dauntless spirit mocks;
Aye! coax and threaten, smile and lower,
See how I brave such feeble power!
Nay, vain you point that murd'rous dart,
It barbless strikes against my heart;
Thy bow unbend, thy quiver rest,
Thou vainly aimest at my breast;
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So now, “have at thee, honest heart.”
Thou heaven's best gift or malediction,
Thou thing made up of contradiction,
Of beamy smiles, and chrystal tears,
Of certainties, and trembling fears,
Of vivid hopes, and anxious doubts,
Of sports and joys, and frowns, and pouts;
Of blisses fading into care,
And extacy—to dark despair;
Of confidence,—and green suspicion,
Of tyranny,—and sweet submission;
Of melting tones,—and murmuring ire,
Delicious strains,—and jealous fire;
Of mantling blushes,—humid eyes,
Impassion'd looks, and heart breath'd sighs;
Of glowing, golden expectation,
And griefs, of fancy's germination;
Of present joys,—and future woe,
Of chill disdain,—and genial glow;
Of scorn assumed,—and winning wiles,
Repulsive looks,—seducing smiles;
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Compose thee, het'rogeneous boy!
Thou sometimes angel—sometimes devil,
Thou baleful,—yet enchanting evil,
We now reject thee,—now embrace,
Now thou'rt our pride,—and now disgrace;
Yet worship thee we must, 'tis said,
With all thy failings on thy head,
And even I! who mock thee most,
And still my scepticism boast;
Who sportive, break thy chains asunder,
And laugh at what the many wonder,
And think thy death-inflicting arrows,
Fit instruments to murder—sparrows;
I who have oft with daring hand,
Pluck'd from thine eye the artful band,
Expos'd the mischiefs it conceal'd,
And every venom'd glance reveal'd;
Thy pinions clip'd, and from their plumes,
Distill'd for dressing-box perfumes,
Thy feather'd shafts converted soon,
To pens,—thy follies to lampoon;
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As soon transform'd, a toy encased;
Even I, perhaps, approach the hour,
Which leads me victim to thy pow'r;
When no more sportive, no more free,
To boast my cherish'd liberty;
Nor laugh to scorn thy potent art,
When felt within my throbbing heart!
Yet long, oh long! defer the day,
And turn thine arms another way;
Thy siege defer, at least a while,
And march 'gainst those, who with a smile
Thy bondage meet,—and hug their chains,
And court thy pleasures and thy pains;
And when thy power thou dost impose,
Oh give thy joys,—but keep thy woes.
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