 | The Errors of Ecstasie |  |
THOU HAST SLEPT, O LYRE!
TO MRS. ---
Thou hast slept, O Lyre!
Yet the wild stream weepeth,
The wingéd hours away,
And the vale-flower under her bonnet peepeth,
To ensnare thy praise for her beauteous attire,
Sing again, sweet Lyre, I pray.
Yet the wild stream weepeth,
The wingéd hours away,
And the vale-flower under her bonnet peepeth,
To ensnare thy praise for her beauteous attire,
Sing again, sweet Lyre, I pray.
53
“Let the blue rills mourn,
And the flowers cease wooing
My silent chords—in vain!
Their still soul wakes not to such petty suing,
But thy fingers along my strings shall burn,
If thou'lt sing to thy Love again.”
And the flowers cease wooing
My silent chords—in vain!
Their still soul wakes not to such petty suing,
But thy fingers along my strings shall burn,
If thou'lt sing to thy Love again.”
My Love!—At thy pray'r,
Let the slumb'ring minions
Of lyral song arise!
And heav'n-born fame on angelical pinions,
Mounting the springy volumes of the air,
Tell her beauty to the skies!
Let the slumb'ring minions
Of lyral song arise!
And heav'n-born fame on angelical pinions,
Mounting the springy volumes of the air,
Tell her beauty to the skies!
In my breathing bow'rs,
Where the sighing willow,
And wild vine o'er my bed,
Shadowing mine own ambrosial pillow,
Shall lull thee with sighs o' murmuring flow'rs,
Sweet Lady, rest thy head.
Where the sighing willow,
And wild vine o'er my bed,
Shadowing mine own ambrosial pillow,
Shall lull thee with sighs o' murmuring flow'rs,
Sweet Lady, rest thy head.
54
Round the fragrant couch
Where thy dear form resteth,
Th' ensanguin'd flow'r shall lie,
And the dearest theme with which Heav'n investeth
A poet's soul, and a minstrel's touch,
My Lyre to thine ear shall sigh.
Where thy dear form resteth,
Th' ensanguin'd flow'r shall lie,
And the dearest theme with which Heav'n investeth
A poet's soul, and a minstrel's touch,
My Lyre to thine ear shall sigh.
When my goblet foams
For thy lip to press it,
Bedew'd by breath of thine,
Reach me mine hallowéd bowl to kiss it,
Whilst o'er, the spirit of thy sweetness roams,
And to nectar turns the wine.
For thy lip to press it,
Bedew'd by breath of thine,
Reach me mine hallowéd bowl to kiss it,
Whilst o'er, the spirit of thy sweetness roams,
And to nectar turns the wine.
And oh! when I kneel
At thy bosom's altar,
Where heav'n's own incense lies,
When mine eye doth swim, and my tongue doth falter,
Seeking to tell what my pulse doth feel,
Shall my lip drink nought but sighs?
At thy bosom's altar,
Where heav'n's own incense lies,
When mine eye doth swim, and my tongue doth falter,
Seeking to tell what my pulse doth feel,
Shall my lip drink nought but sighs?
55
Ah me! if that breast
Might enthrone my slumbers,
Lull'd by thy voice divine,
My Lyre would forget her reckless numbers,
For such spell might charm to eternal rest
Souls, far less warm than mine.
Might enthrone my slumbers,
Lull'd by thy voice divine,
My Lyre would forget her reckless numbers,
For such spell might charm to eternal rest
Souls, far less warm than mine.
But my laurel mourns,
And my Lyre sings, “Willow!”
The knell when love doth die;
For thy cheek doth press another's pillow,
And my soul for a second Laura burns,
Though an humbler Petrarch I.
And my Lyre sings, “Willow!”
The knell when love doth die;
For thy cheek doth press another's pillow,
And my soul for a second Laura burns,
Though an humbler Petrarch I.
| The Errors of Ecstasie | |